There's this something I've been pondering for the entire week, and, this morning, I'm watching the sun rise behind these abnormally amazing clouds, and the wind pushing the trees in an awkward rhythm, and everything seems strange and beautiful...and it hits me: the answer to the thing I've been pondering. At least, an answer that is good enough for me.
You see, last weekend, I only had one student in my teen Sunday School class. This isn't all that uncommon; two of the kids are avid swimmers for their swim team, one has a part-time job that sometimes needs her on Sundays, and the others are only there sometimes, anyway. At first, I thought, this might be awkward. This is a sixteen-year-old boy, stuck in a room with me and the latest issue of DevoZine, the devotional we study each week. It is beyond likely that he is regretting every move that led him up to this room, this morning, including his mother telling him to "get up and go to Sunday School."
However, I'm sure he doesn't know that the material we discussed in that room was food for thought for an entire week for me. The initial discussion was about confidence, and the fact that so many young people dislike their images. This teen appears particularly confident, and when I told him that, he agreed. "But," he said, "it's still just as bad for guys as it is for girls. Guys care about their appearance at least as much as girls, in high school, anyway." I did not know this. I thought the early morning struggle we have in this house, me vs. the five-year-old, when I am challenged as "the meanest mom" who makes him wear "the ugliest clothes" was...a phase. Somehow, however, the topic swirled away from confidence issues, and on to something deeper. We transitioned into the topic of God's existence, period. It's such a vast concept to wrap your mind around anyway, and as a teen, it's often the furthest thing from your thoughts. I remember those days. I remember thinking, "I'll have time later to worry about that stuff. To say sorry for the bad stuff I'm doing, and to care about what God says." Thankfully, I was right...I do have time, now. But it doesn't mean I was right to think that way.
"It's just so weird," he said, "there are, like, a thousand different concepts on what happens after we die...and like, are there ghosts or not, and is there a purgatory, or do we go straight to heaven? Or are there just ghosts because those people decided to stick around?" Ohhh...what did I sign up for? This is hard enough to try to explain to a five-year-old who thinks God should wear a bell on his "collar" because that would at least help him know when He's in the room.
"And," I say, "there's the ashes to ashes, dust to dust theory. When we die, we are buried, or cremated, and it's likened to a deep sleep, or a different realm of consciousness, until we are all resurrected."
"Yeah, and that's crazy. I mean, it's insane if you think about it. Not that I don't love sleeping...but...we'd be resurrected, right alongside Abe Lincoln or something. How weird would that be?"
I nodded. I hadn't thought of that.
"I mean, how do you know?" he asked. "How does anyone know?"
That's the thing. None of us know. Nobody, to my knowledge, has died and come back to write the tutorial on what to do when you see the light. Or don't see the light. Maybe there is no light.
We all have our own beliefs, and part of the reason the world is as messed up as it is, is because we can't seem to agree to disagree. We can't seem to fathom that there might be more than one right answer. After all, to this day, and feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, God hasn't shown up on a Sunday morning dressed in his best Armani and said "Hey, way to go, guys, turns out YOU are the right religion. All those other folks worshipping this morning, (or last night, or Wednesday at sundown, or whatever), are craaaaaazy!"
So, anyway. This morning seems weird to me. The weather seems to indicate a change is coming. Which, duh, it is. It'll be snowing before we know it. But it's just one of those odd, "winds of change" mornings, when it seems that beyond the clouds, in the rush of the breeze, in the peeks of sunlight through strangely golden-green puffs of white, there is a mystery.
Mystery.
The mystery, it came to me, is faith. And faith is largely based on trust. I realized that all those times, as a teen, when I was acting not-so-appropriately, I trusted that everything would be okay. I had this inner glimmer of hope that even if I wasn't the shiny penny that my mother expected me to be, I'd still come out alright. Which, I think, I did...I trusted, even when I didn't know, that God would make sure of it. I had faith. Although, I wouldn't have admitted it at the time.
Even from birth, we've been programmed to trust. At the moment we are born, all things we "knew" from conception to that point, are ripped away, and we are forced to trust, and rely on someone else to get us through. We have faith, if you can imagine a tiny being having faith, because we don't know anything else. As life continues, we learn the bitter reality that often, relying on someone doesn't always pan out. Trust is abandoned, faith can become a resentment, a disappointment. Let's face it, reality can be a major letdown from time to time. People get sick, people get injured, people we love are plucked from our lives in the blink of an eye. Living in a world of ever-increasing melancholy is no picnic. So what happens? We give up, that's what. We acknowledge faith as something warm and fuzzy, something we can claim when things are going great, but ignore when things are, well, crappy.
I realized that it's okay to admit that I don't know the answers to some of the topics we discussed on Sunday. Encouraging my class to have faith, however, even when there seems to be no person they can trust, is something I intend to work on. Faith is about accepting the mystery. It's about believing when it looks like there is nothing worthwhile. The way I see it, faith is the mystery in our own life story: it keeps us turning the pages to see if something greater will happen in the next chapter.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
when you think you're failing as a parent...
We can't really fault our children for wanting "things" when, as adults, we constantly let our lives revolve around "the next big thing." Whether it is a new event, like getting married, remodeling the kitchen, starting a new job, bringing home a puppy, etc., or a new possession, like a car, an I-phone or a Wii, we seem to be driven by these "things" coming up. We plan for them. We save for them. We tailor them in our minds until they are perfect, and before they even exist in reality.
Sometimes, the things never happen. Sometimes, you have to drive the car until the wheels fall off. Sometimes, the kids have to share the bedroom because there's no way to afford the bigger house, and certainly not a Wii to go with it. Most adults have a method for reasoning with those issues...or at least their pocketbook does. Kids, I've discovered, do not.
My Isaac is very driven. He's driven, however, not by the desire to do well, or even to be recognized as a "good boy." He is driven by stuff. I tell you, my friends, I am sad to admit this. He, however, wouldn't be the slightest bit sad to admit this. He loves the thought of getting something new. Lives for it, in fact. We've had some discipline issues over the past, oh, let's see...he'll be six in October, so, five years. I've tried motivating him many different ways. Positive reinforcement, all the experts say. Self-empowerment. Build the desire to do well. Then, when that didn't work out so hot, when I realized I was just creating an arrogant little beast who didn't think anyone could "put him down," I started removing privileges. No TV. No toys. He didn't care. I listened to countless elders say "just give the kid a good-old-fashioned spanking!" And I did. A few times. He didn't like it, true, but it didn't change the behavior, either.
So now we are down to stuff. A nurse at his pediatrician's office said she motivated her kids with an allowance of sorts...she let them earn marbles for good behavior, and so many marbles (enough to reach specific lines on the marble jar) would amount to so many dollars. As a bonus, they also learned the value of money. Somewhat.
I thought I'd try it. We didn't do marbles...like I said, this kid needs to "see it to believe it." I knew that the intangible concept of marbles in a jar equaling stuff later would not work. So I started the week with $5. Each time he had a good day, at school and at home, he got to keep $1. If he didn't behave, he gave it back. He has yet to have a week when he could keep all $5. He is motivated, however, because he checks the prices of the things he wants at the store, and sees that he needs more money to buy it. The way he's going along, he may be able to buy that Bionicle when he's 12.
Friends, I don't really recommend this method, and I am a little sorry I've done it. You see, it's not that it isn't working. It really does work. It's that I'm right where I don't want to be. I don't want to be responsible for bringing another person into society that is solely driven by materialism. A counselor once told me of a similar method, but instead of money, the kids could choose an activity, such as, a movie and popcorn, a trip to the zoo, etc. I tried that too. No go. This kid wants stuff. Have I said that already? I mean, I look at his environment. He watches limited TV (by that I mean the Disney channel because I've blocked most all of the rest), and it's laden with commercials for new toys. When we go to stores, the advertising is all eye-level to kids, and even a Happy Meal at McDonald's isn't about the food in it, but rather, the toy. The cheap plastic toy that will provide, maybe, five minutes of entertainment. At school, there is a prize box, for kids who are behaving well. Isaac says to me, this morning, "Mommy, when you went to school, was there a prize box?"
"No," I say, "when I was in school, the fear of coming home and telling my mom that I was naughty, or that I got in trouble, was enough."
"Why, would she spank you?"
"Maybe, maybe not. But she would be very disappointed in me."
He half-grinned and shrugged. He doesn't get it. And in case you didn't catch it - disappointing me is also the least of his worries.
How,I ask myself,how am I failing at this? I am working to become a child counselor, and I can't even straighten my own kid out. This is looking good. I ask God, all the time, why He couldn't just attach instructions on these children when they're born. Why not? I mean, I get it, when we're adults, we're supposed to have control of things, and somehow be able to navigate life, and marriage, and even loss. That's all hard enough. But then, God, You put these little creatures in our lives, and we're supposed to "raise them right." Yeah, I know it's been done for eons. I know. So, why, with all the resources I have available, am I struggling? Is it that I have too many resources?
I found myself asking these questions this morning, as I watched Isaac skip down the street to the bus stop. I came into the house, sat down, and glanced at the Bible on my nightstand. Inside the front cover, I have taped a verse from 2 Timothy : "But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it and how from childhood you have been acquainted with the sacred writings, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus."
It was one of those lightbulb moments: one of those "aha" type things.
For it occurred to me at that moment, I was wrong.
He did write an instruction book.
Sometimes, the things never happen. Sometimes, you have to drive the car until the wheels fall off. Sometimes, the kids have to share the bedroom because there's no way to afford the bigger house, and certainly not a Wii to go with it. Most adults have a method for reasoning with those issues...or at least their pocketbook does. Kids, I've discovered, do not.
My Isaac is very driven. He's driven, however, not by the desire to do well, or even to be recognized as a "good boy." He is driven by stuff. I tell you, my friends, I am sad to admit this. He, however, wouldn't be the slightest bit sad to admit this. He loves the thought of getting something new. Lives for it, in fact. We've had some discipline issues over the past, oh, let's see...he'll be six in October, so, five years. I've tried motivating him many different ways. Positive reinforcement, all the experts say. Self-empowerment. Build the desire to do well. Then, when that didn't work out so hot, when I realized I was just creating an arrogant little beast who didn't think anyone could "put him down," I started removing privileges. No TV. No toys. He didn't care. I listened to countless elders say "just give the kid a good-old-fashioned spanking!" And I did. A few times. He didn't like it, true, but it didn't change the behavior, either.
So now we are down to stuff. A nurse at his pediatrician's office said she motivated her kids with an allowance of sorts...she let them earn marbles for good behavior, and so many marbles (enough to reach specific lines on the marble jar) would amount to so many dollars. As a bonus, they also learned the value of money. Somewhat.
I thought I'd try it. We didn't do marbles...like I said, this kid needs to "see it to believe it." I knew that the intangible concept of marbles in a jar equaling stuff later would not work. So I started the week with $5. Each time he had a good day, at school and at home, he got to keep $1. If he didn't behave, he gave it back. He has yet to have a week when he could keep all $5. He is motivated, however, because he checks the prices of the things he wants at the store, and sees that he needs more money to buy it. The way he's going along, he may be able to buy that Bionicle when he's 12.
Friends, I don't really recommend this method, and I am a little sorry I've done it. You see, it's not that it isn't working. It really does work. It's that I'm right where I don't want to be. I don't want to be responsible for bringing another person into society that is solely driven by materialism. A counselor once told me of a similar method, but instead of money, the kids could choose an activity, such as, a movie and popcorn, a trip to the zoo, etc. I tried that too. No go. This kid wants stuff. Have I said that already? I mean, I look at his environment. He watches limited TV (by that I mean the Disney channel because I've blocked most all of the rest), and it's laden with commercials for new toys. When we go to stores, the advertising is all eye-level to kids, and even a Happy Meal at McDonald's isn't about the food in it, but rather, the toy. The cheap plastic toy that will provide, maybe, five minutes of entertainment. At school, there is a prize box, for kids who are behaving well. Isaac says to me, this morning, "Mommy, when you went to school, was there a prize box?"
"No," I say, "when I was in school, the fear of coming home and telling my mom that I was naughty, or that I got in trouble, was enough."
"Why, would she spank you?"
"Maybe, maybe not. But she would be very disappointed in me."
He half-grinned and shrugged. He doesn't get it. And in case you didn't catch it - disappointing me is also the least of his worries.
How,I ask myself,how am I failing at this? I am working to become a child counselor, and I can't even straighten my own kid out. This is looking good. I ask God, all the time, why He couldn't just attach instructions on these children when they're born. Why not? I mean, I get it, when we're adults, we're supposed to have control of things, and somehow be able to navigate life, and marriage, and even loss. That's all hard enough. But then, God, You put these little creatures in our lives, and we're supposed to "raise them right." Yeah, I know it's been done for eons. I know. So, why, with all the resources I have available, am I struggling? Is it that I have too many resources?
I found myself asking these questions this morning, as I watched Isaac skip down the street to the bus stop. I came into the house, sat down, and glanced at the Bible on my nightstand. Inside the front cover, I have taped a verse from 2 Timothy : "But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it and how from childhood you have been acquainted with the sacred writings, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus."
It was one of those lightbulb moments: one of those "aha" type things.
For it occurred to me at that moment, I was wrong.
He did write an instruction book.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Sometimes the funniest things come to me during the day, and I think, oh I should write this down, and then I don't. Which is why sometimes, I don't write a blog for weeks. It's because I forget things.
Today, however, the gates to freedom (which is a word used in a very limited capacity, since I still have 3 kids, 3 dogs, and a husband who is just as needy, if not needier, than the previous) have opened. I completed the summer quarter of grad school 2010 and I now have a 3 and a half-ish week break until fall quarter begins. What will I do with my time? All this blessed time? I plan to while away the hours with deviant behavior. I will look, shamelessly, at stores online. Gap, at J.Crew...at L.L. Bean...hurt me. I will bake things. Which I do anyway, but I will bake things that take more time, more precision. I'll play with the kids even more. Outside. In my favorite season of the year. I will engross myself in mindless television. Things I don't normally get to watch. I'll...I'll...why am I in school, again?
Anyway. Also on this break, I'll have to do some mental preparation. In October, I have a surgery scheduled. A full-fledged, no-hormones-left-behind hysterectomy. Which isn't completely true, because I think they are leaving the hormone producing parts. So I don't have to take pills. That was one of my demands. To not have to take pills. I am bothered by this, somewhat. I always thought I'd have a lot of children. Like, maybe a lot, really. Four, five? Six, even. I know, Mom, you think I'm certifiable. I actually really like the little buggers, once in a while. But, see, then I got divorced, which was a real humdinger, and then I remarried, which was sort of an eyebrow-raiser, and then...well, we had Ella. Barely. Because I barely lasted through that pregnancy. My body was screaming "NOOO" and my mind was pleading with it, "come on, one more?!" So, I gave in. To my body's wishes, that is. I had one of those nifty tubal ligations, which had to be done in the "university" hospital, when the Catholic one refused to allow it...and I was sad, because I wanted to have her in the new hospital. But I regress. A year later: flash forward. My body is still screaming "NOOO" but now I don't know why, other than that maybe it's got some neurotic mind of its own...and it hasn't been treating me very well, lately. It probably wants me to go on some sort of rejuvenating Eat, Pray,Love style excursion, I'll bet. And I'm sure this surgery will end up setting me back enough that I could have afforded one. Anyway, I wasn't even going to mention it, publicly, but I will, because it'll put me out of commission, physically, for a couple weeks. What it may do, however, is put me IN commission as far as my writing goes. I'll be forced, yes, forced, to lay in my big chair and look at things on the internet. I'll have to check Facebook several times an hour. I'll have to Ebay. Which, as you can see, is not only a website, but a verb, an activity.
Speaking of Facebook, do most of you have one? I think most people I know have a Facebook page. I am contemplating the deletion of my own, personally. It's too consuming. It implies things that sometimes I didn't mean to imply. You can't use sarcasm too carefully, and I'm a natural cynic. I also sometimes feel overwhelmed by how super-wonderful-fantabulous some people's lives are. Some people's glorious marriages and too-cute-and-angelic-never-did-a-thing-wrong children. I mean, people, good for you. This is what I mean. I really am, inside, glad for ya. If it's all true. But that silly little cynic inside me says, it can't always be true. You gotta have bad days. You gotta wonder, sometimes, why God didn't just spell it out, women are superior, men really ought to take notes. Or be banished, to some cave in a remote location, with other men, and maybe between all of them, they'll find one working brain cell. You gotta, once in a while, want to duct tape your children to a wall and leave them there. Er, you know, something like that. That's the little voice of sarcasm in my head. And if I said it, publicly, it would make me out to be bitter and awful. Resentful, even. Maybe I am. So, in short, sometimes I think Facebook should be called Fakebook. And to all of my friends out there who do post the bad with the good: thank you. That's why I love you all. Misery loves company, right?! Kidding, kidding...but seriously. I'm going to start Truthbook. I'll send you an invite.
Today, however, the gates to freedom (which is a word used in a very limited capacity, since I still have 3 kids, 3 dogs, and a husband who is just as needy, if not needier, than the previous) have opened. I completed the summer quarter of grad school 2010 and I now have a 3 and a half-ish week break until fall quarter begins. What will I do with my time? All this blessed time? I plan to while away the hours with deviant behavior. I will look, shamelessly, at stores online. Gap, at J.Crew...at L.L. Bean...hurt me. I will bake things. Which I do anyway, but I will bake things that take more time, more precision. I'll play with the kids even more. Outside. In my favorite season of the year. I will engross myself in mindless television. Things I don't normally get to watch. I'll...I'll...why am I in school, again?
Anyway. Also on this break, I'll have to do some mental preparation. In October, I have a surgery scheduled. A full-fledged, no-hormones-left-behind hysterectomy. Which isn't completely true, because I think they are leaving the hormone producing parts. So I don't have to take pills. That was one of my demands. To not have to take pills. I am bothered by this, somewhat. I always thought I'd have a lot of children. Like, maybe a lot, really. Four, five? Six, even. I know, Mom, you think I'm certifiable. I actually really like the little buggers, once in a while. But, see, then I got divorced, which was a real humdinger, and then I remarried, which was sort of an eyebrow-raiser, and then...well, we had Ella. Barely. Because I barely lasted through that pregnancy. My body was screaming "NOOO" and my mind was pleading with it, "come on, one more?!" So, I gave in. To my body's wishes, that is. I had one of those nifty tubal ligations, which had to be done in the "university" hospital, when the Catholic one refused to allow it...and I was sad, because I wanted to have her in the new hospital. But I regress. A year later: flash forward. My body is still screaming "NOOO" but now I don't know why, other than that maybe it's got some neurotic mind of its own...and it hasn't been treating me very well, lately. It probably wants me to go on some sort of rejuvenating Eat, Pray,Love style excursion, I'll bet. And I'm sure this surgery will end up setting me back enough that I could have afforded one. Anyway, I wasn't even going to mention it, publicly, but I will, because it'll put me out of commission, physically, for a couple weeks. What it may do, however, is put me IN commission as far as my writing goes. I'll be forced, yes, forced, to lay in my big chair and look at things on the internet. I'll have to check Facebook several times an hour. I'll have to Ebay. Which, as you can see, is not only a website, but a verb, an activity.
Speaking of Facebook, do most of you have one? I think most people I know have a Facebook page. I am contemplating the deletion of my own, personally. It's too consuming. It implies things that sometimes I didn't mean to imply. You can't use sarcasm too carefully, and I'm a natural cynic. I also sometimes feel overwhelmed by how super-wonderful-fantabulous some people's lives are. Some people's glorious marriages and too-cute-and-angelic-never-did-a-thing-wrong children. I mean, people, good for you. This is what I mean. I really am, inside, glad for ya. If it's all true. But that silly little cynic inside me says, it can't always be true. You gotta have bad days. You gotta wonder, sometimes, why God didn't just spell it out, women are superior, men really ought to take notes. Or be banished, to some cave in a remote location, with other men, and maybe between all of them, they'll find one working brain cell. You gotta, once in a while, want to duct tape your children to a wall and leave them there. Er, you know, something like that. That's the little voice of sarcasm in my head. And if I said it, publicly, it would make me out to be bitter and awful. Resentful, even. Maybe I am. So, in short, sometimes I think Facebook should be called Fakebook. And to all of my friends out there who do post the bad with the good: thank you. That's why I love you all. Misery loves company, right?! Kidding, kidding...but seriously. I'm going to start Truthbook. I'll send you an invite.
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